you're flicking people off

This is good.

I don't know how it is possible that you are as lucid and up to tricks as you are (considering what you went through less than twenty four hours ago).

You'reTom.

Tom without a voice.

A little buzzed.

Trying to get at your tubes and bandages.

Taking my hand and kissing it as if to apologize.

A broad sweeping aplogy.

For this. For everything.

It's ok.

I love you.

Six weeks minimum.

Ok?

Can you stand it?

The fact that you can't will be meaningful in your progress.

You are a fighter.

I've heard it a million times. I've said it a million times.

You mouthed it a couple of days ago. Get me out of here.

We're working on it, baby.

That's the thing.

You will live to tell the tale.

it is what it is

An infection in the brain.

This was not supposed to happen.

None of this was supposed to happen.

A standing date.

I wait for five o clock.

I get there and the process begins.

Wait in line
Get a pass
Walk to ICU
Wait to see if ICU will let me in
Get into ICU
Wait to see if you are available
Go into your room

Tommy

I hold your hand

I talk to others

Things to remember

Things to know

I look into your eyes

I tell you that you're doing great

I kiss your hand

I wait

To be alone with you

I undo your restraints

You kiss me - I kiss you
I tell you things

You are ok

I look into your eye

I love you

I'm so lucky that I met you

You are the best thing that has ever happened to me

I hold your hand

I tell you everything is alright

You are healing

This is temporary

I love you

Until you fall asleep

And you look at me with your one big open eye.

Or you write me strange poetry.

The beginning of one idea - the end of another.

I keep these pieces of paper close to me.

Sometimes at work I study your bank photo ID.

I lifted it from your wallet. Sorry.

It's mine now.

I try to read your lips. I try to comfort you.

You comfort me.

You touch my face. You try to put your finger up my nose.

It was probably glitter. There is always glitter on my nose from my work.

There are a lot of wires at my work. I get aound them to style my merchandise.

There are a lot of wires at the hospital, too.

Brain infection.

As it turns out - metal doesn't respond to antibiotics.

Metal.

I want it out.

I met you on a weird day.

Eyes.

Yours are so beautiful.

Arms. Your arms.

You know what's happened to me - what has happend to you?

This was not what I expected.

This was exactly what was expected.

I knew.

You knew.

Shocking - wrong - devastating.

Understood - accepted - prepared for.

We talked about this. We talked about this alot.

We talked about this too much.

You meant to protect me.

Get home safely.

Get home safely.

Bacteria.

Battery.

A well lit alley. The way people manage through.

You laugh.

You smile.

You smiled tonight.

you have something to say

Of the list of things that are healing, that need to heal, that will heal (that is, will begin the process of healing - with or without medical attention - because the body has it's own agenda) withdrawl steps in line.

They put it on hold.

Yes. It will wait. But not for long.

So you cough and shake. And it exhausts you.

The cigarettes that I dug out of your clothes? Don't worry. I smoked them.

It was for the best.

The El pass? I haven't smoked that yet. I'll keep it for you. That and a few others things.

You're awake and talking.

This came as a surprise on Wednesday.

No sound comes from your lips. But you're talking. You've got so much to say.

The best conversation I've had in weeks is the one I had with you today.

All eyes.

Handsome you. How do you do it?

Your eyes. Your smile. Your pissed off mood. Your silent laugh. Your incredulousness.

You roll your eyes.

You give me your hand.

You say things. You're amused. You're frustrated.

I hear you.

Sometimes I manage to read your lips.

hey, baby

somebody told me

I want

not cold

friend

no

ok

I love you

sister

this thing is

So I brought over the page of phrases from the speech therapist. So that you could point to a box and say what you need to say.

Things like:

I am humgry.

I am in pain.

I love you.

I handed it to you. You took it from my hand and positioned it so that you could read it.

You looked at it for a very long time.

I pointed to the alphabet at the bottom. You could spell it out. Like a message on a Ouija board. Take your time. I'm listening.

Yes. You understood. You studied it.

Finally you pointed to the letter J. You looked at me to make certain that I got that.

That was J.

Yes. Got it. J.

Satisfied that I understood, you handed the alphabet back to me. That was it. You were done.

J

So I went to get a pen and paper. I put the pen in your hand and got the paper just where you wanted it. I told you to take your time.

You held the pen at the paper for a while.

Then I ran to my bag to get a felt tip. Brilliant. That would be better. I switched the pens.

I got the paper back in position.

The pen was in your hand. You were deffinitely holding the pen. The pad of paper was right. You proceeded to put the pen onto the paper.

And you held it there as you concentrated.

A blot started to form.

But then you started to move the pen. It was a struggle. But a shape started to form. A sort of C shape.

You paused. Thinking about the next thing to write. I said nothing. This was good. A good idea on my part. For once. I had an idea.

I felt really good about the whole thing.

You would now be able to say something. Anything. And I would be able to "read" it. What you have to say. And this would relieve you of all that you have to say.

And I was all ears. I didn't dare speak or move or break the spell.

I was so glad.

I looked at the paper. Focused all of my attention on the paper. You did, too.

And it might take time. But I was all in. I was ready. For whatever you had to say. Seriously it could be anything.

You drew a sort of C shape and handed the paper back to me.

C shape.

You waited to see what I thought.

I told you it was good.

You nodded in agreement.

Yes. It was good.

sometimes I realize that I don't know what I'm doing

This happens regularly.

It happens at work.

I'll pause for a moment too long, and realize that I have no idea what I am doing.

A box will be brought over to me.

A box that contains a turtle crafted out of a kitchen sponge, a small plastic Easter basket, three pieces of construction paper (each carefully sandwiched between non-acid cardboard and labeled: MOCK UP! suggesting that no actual construction paper could be spared at this time, that something terrible must have happened in the world of construction paper, that a team of mock-up specialists had to be called in to create a facsimile, that meetings were held, probably "frantic" meetings, maybe even "speaker phone" meetings), and a bottle of glue (a real bottle of glue, I checked).

You get the picture.

These items somehow make sense.

But it was never explained to me. And as I talked to people (about the items in this box), it became clear that it was never explained to anyone. And every box is like this.

So, if I don't allow myself to think, these items will be arranged in a "logical" way for the purpose of commercial photography.

But, if I think (at all) about the relationship between the sponge, the basket, the paper, and the glue - I might balk.

Not all the time, but some of the time.

Same goes when I wake up, that is, "snap out of it". My little cloud suddenly dissipates and I realize I have no idea what I'm doing.

In life.

This seems to happen a lot while on the train. Or while in line at the grocery store.

Even while arranging cheese on a platter. I proceed rotely. At first. Certain, somehow, that I know just how to arrange six or seven (disparate yet complimentary) cheeses.

But when I'm done, and I step back (away from the cheese) and I really see it for what it is (that is, cheese), I know immediately that it isn't working.

No. It's not even close to what I saw in my mind.

So, I walk away for a while. Then come back. To take another look and somehow it's gotten worse. The cheese is not attractive, but merely functional. And nothing (I mean nothing) about it looks like the cheese I've seen on platters in the past.

This is not what I had to set out to do with the cheese.

How did this happen? This applies to every facet of my life.

The bottom line - not thinking (ever) is the key to maintaining the idea that I DO know what I'm doing.

And, yes, I have talked to other people about this.

They all said the same thing. That they, "..definitely do know what they were doing. All of the time".

And I asked at least ten people.

silly me

So, last night I was sitting here trying to create a crossword puzzle (long story) which, it turns out, is a lot more fun than actually doing crossword puzzles.

I was surprised at how much graph paper I was wasting. I had to switch to pencil.

The coming up with clues - that's the instant gratification part. It gets one geared up for the fitting-all-the-words-together part.

Seeing as I don't believe in having any black squares or spaces in a crossword (though, admittedly, I never do them - crossword puzzles - I don't like them), the second part was trickier, not as fun, but more like science (almost).

Or like math. Math using letters. Which is ok. So, a few hours had gotten away from me. I noticed that the sun went down, but I continued working by the light of the window anyway. I just didn't want to stop and mess up my momentum.

Eventually I was working in the dark, but by then my eyes had adjusted to the light from the street, and, really - it didn't matter. I could (by then) feel via instinct where the squares were. Then my boyfriend called. To see how I was. And we spoke for a few minutes. About this and that. His day, my day, bla-di-bla.

And, finally, he said something about the sandwich. Which was a relief. Because I really wanted to reiterate that I felt it was a bland sandwich. That, in no way, was that sandwich what I had intended (and would like another chance), etc, etc.

He argued this point with me a bit. He said that he thought it was a good sandwich. And I think he meant it. But then he said something about mustard.

I hadn't thought of that.

Mustard.

Of course.

mayo

Holidays. They're all in our heads.

Today, for example. Today is observed as perfect-turkey-sandwich day. And with it all the stress, expectations and controversy of any other holiday.

Case in point. I used to use Miracle Whip.

Don't get mad. Used to. I used to use Miracle Whip. Used to.

I've stopped. And it is due to peer pressure that I've stopped.

It seems that people have very strong feelings when it comes to Miracle Whip.

That is, that Miracle Whip is NOT mayonnaise. And never will be.

In my research (and in no way was it my intention to make this my research, though, rather, it was imposed upon me as a study) I've found that Miracle Whip (being such a point of contention between people, even chefs, even casual sandwich makers, and probably scientists) brings out the very worst in people.

I have been met with nothing short of incredulousness on this topic.

I have also made these (incredulous) people a number of sandwiches in the past. Sandwiches where I employed Miracle whip as a dressing.

And I heard nothing but raves about said sandwiches.

Miracle Whip. What's the big deal?

It started when I was very young. A few sandwiches (actually four) had made it into our kitchen. These were sandwich from the outside. Sandwiches from my grandmother's kitchen. Made from Thanksgiving leftovers.

Made with a little olive on stick (the stick meant to hold the whole thing together, of course, as it was a many tiered sandwich). Made with a tiny bit of horseradich. Made with love.

Made with Miracle Whip.

These sandwiches were intended for the next day. For Friday. Sandwich day.

We hadn't even taken off our coats when these sandwiches were taken out of their parcel (also stuffing, cranberries, potato pancakes, petit-fours, waffles..)

We lacked discipline.

But I didn't care about that. I was wondering why it seemed that this was how a sandwich was supposed to taste (and never did).

I wanted to know why.

Really. The figuring out why something was better than something else. So as to achieve the better result from that point on - a life long habit.

This upset my mother. She didn't want to answer any of my questions.

I know now that this was due to the fact that her family used mayonnaise.

And families that use mayonnaise do not use Miracle Whip. Nor do they, for that matter, ever talk about Miracle Whip.

They behave as though Miracle Whip doesn't exist.

Then my father walked into the room and informed me that it was Miracle Whip.

Miracle Whip was why I liked this sandwich (for once). It was what was missing from every other sandwich I'd ever had, yes, and (he added) no, we would never have Miracle Whip in this house. Ever. Because my mother was against it. End of discussion.

Enjoy your sandwich. Go to bed.

In that order.

This is a true story.

is this thing on ?

A-hem.

I used to like my blog.

I believe the first thing I ever posted regarded Thanksgiving Hangover 2004.

Times were different then. But aren't times always different?

Consider:

1967 - 1974
* Fell and scraped my knee. Was administered a band-aid.
* Became upset with a sibling due to some injustice.
* Was sent to my room without dinner.
* They had stuffed peppers, hot rolls and a salad.

1975
* Moved to the suburbs
* Barbie dolls
* Beef stroganoff, beets, and rye bread (with apple butter).

1974 - 1990:
* Went to school
* Got a job
* Started to mess with the color of my hair.

1990 - 1993
* Mexican food and eye-liner.
* Windex (also lightbulbs; household items)

1993 - 1997
* Exercise
* Fun clothes
* Money
* Vodka

1997 - 2003
* School
* Not much money
* Some vodka

2004
* Started a blog

2006
* Polish sausage, kraut (with brown sugar, apples, horseradich, caraway seeds, black pepper, and a very nice Hungarian mustard), acorn squash, warm bread with Danish butter.
* Pain in abdomen

Etc, etc.

I could go on and on..

is my blog broken?

I think my blog is broken. It has been a long time. Yes.

Seriously. What's wrong with my blog?

(clears off cob webs..)

Ok. It does work. Good. I was terrified. Really.

So, I'm looking for a couch. For real this time. Read about it in my archives. I'm afraid to post a link. For fear of errors. But here it is. (for the love of God, click on the highlighted word).

We'll see.

I didn't need a couch back then. Now it's dire.

Couches. Such a pain in the ass.

Mona: so goth, so scary

I need a vacation.

I forgot until today that it's the fifth of August. My bills!

So, last night I was looking at the Mona Lisa in a book I took from my dad's house. Despite the redundancy of the Mona Lisa, I like the Mona Lisa. I've never seen the real thing. But I like what I have seen. And seeing as I (and all humans) have probably seen more images of Mona Lisa than of anyone or anything else in the world, it's a good thing (that I like her). I was paging through this book knowing that she was inside. I was looking forward to seeing her. Just sort of winding down and getting myself ready to fall asleep. But then I did come across her page. And all of a sudden I became very afraid of her. Mona Lisa seemed dark and evil. As though she could see me, too, (and was looking right through me). This was unprecedented. I got up and turned on every light in my apartment. Then I made myself an ice water and watched the news. It was in this fashion that I talked myself back down.

Mona Lisa.. not evil. Mona Lisa.. not an asshole.

I went to sleep. But the Mona Lisa (which never sleeps) remains a bit of an issue. For five hundred years, Mona Lisa. Just sitting there. Hands folded. So lady like. Waiting. Like a spider.

I don't know what to do.

shredder: now on fire and removed from the premises

I'm serious.

My dad liked to make lists with small sketches off to the side. Very recently I was laughing about this very thing. My dad's picto-lists. I really laughed. As if it were precious. My dad, his peccadilloes. How funny. How strange. Then I found one today. In my files. A list that I had made months ago with little sketches of the listed objects off to the side. It all comes down to:

dad x OCD = me x OCD

I tried to crunch the numbers but, as it turns out, absolutes can't be toyed with. Math is math. More accurately, math = math. Numbers don't lie. Nor do mirrors. People do (mostly to themselves, and unsuccessfully), but not numbers.

So I spent the entire day getting rid of my old files. And my shredder, old smokey (its new, posthumously deemed title, old smokey is indeed charred and smoking in the alley right now), had quite a work out today. My shredder, now at rest. Now garbage.

That's ok. Everything is garbage. And, as anyone who has ever read me knows, I'm boring. And I'm interested in less. Less stuff. Less furniture. Less darling little (handmade or mass produced) thingies made of wood, porcelain, bisque or paper. Less clothing. Less musee de la ma vie gunk and goo. Less crap. More function. Less guilt. More reality. Less being confronted by memories (because, lets face it, they're always there, the memories, whether we want to remember them or not) via every scrap of cloth, piece of plastic, or three dimensional rendering of whatever it was that happened and no longer matters. Each and every albatross, one albatross at a time. Gone. I mean, go away. Please. Because I have to be like this now, so that I'm not like that later.

You know what I mean.

It's been noticed. What happens to people. It's:

..lets cover every surface of every room with EVERYTHING in the world !

or:

..I don't know, one day she just started shopping..

or:

..eat everything on your plate (and while you're at it, keep every piece of paper you've ever touched)..

(clears throat)

NEWS BULLETIN: eating everything on one's plate when one is already sated is just a different kind of waste!

No.

I refuse.

Help: I need less.

And so this has became quite an issue with me. It really has. In my life. And it has been expressed in this blog. And I believe I've lost my readership in the process.

It's why I can say fuck right now and it doesn't matter. Because no one is reading this. Though in reality I just say frick. Or F. But don't misunderstand. Invective has it's place. Motherfucker. Motherfricker. Tomato. Potato. All good. All effective as words. I like to say the word fuck. And I like to yell. And to pretend that my yelling is singing (that is, that I think that my yelling sounds like singing, so that whomever is around doesn't know what to do, as they're both appalled and polite).

Yes. Looking more closely at the list that I found today, I can only conclude that it was started eighteen months ago. It's been updated here and there. The different colored pens that I used attest to this. It's a list of all the things I have managed to get rid of. And the very fact that there was a list (with sketches of said items in the margins) suggests that I was proud:

metal shelves

bentwood chair

big dying plant

metal milk crate

old luggage

metal shoe thing

blue ottoman

my aunt's side table

old printer

old boom box

my brother's big TV

16 bags of clothes

wooden book case

3 boxes of book

small dresser

red velvet chair circa 1899 - gone to a better location

bedroom set - to be safely stored elsewhere

3 plastic 1970's school chairs - to be similarly stored

1950's telephone table/chair - as above

3 boxes of crap - donated to charity

oval coffee table - taken by very nice family. I waved as they drove it away.

Goodbye.

But the plot took a twist a few months ago as my dad's things started to arrive steadily into my space: all that I have gotten rid of has been replaced.

Magically.

Of course I'm attempting to keep two steps ahead of this. I'm in a constant state of input/output minded readiness. Is that garbage! Incoming furniture and objects have yet to cease. And so I operate accordingly. And, as my dad's house was kept compactly (if not discretely) filled, this could go on forever. The casual observer would never have known that behind every row of books stood a second row of books. That behind or beneath the first layer of everything was a second layer of something else. Or that there might be a pair of scissors in every drawer. That's a lot of scissors.

dad's house = never empty

It's one of the reasons I like posting to my blog. Even if it is garbage, no paper is involved. And it takes no real space.